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Days passed, then weeks, and soon the holidays were approaching. The only disturbance was an occasional bright light in the backyard, but no one in the neighborhood commented on it. His immediate next-door neighbors were in their eighties and in bed by eight.
He went to school as usual, corrected the students’ papers, supervised the math marathon, and managed to secure scholarships for his best two students. Jim Cunningham from across the street remarked on his staying up so late and what was he doing down in his basement — building a time machine? Nyuck, nyuck.
After his initial terror died down, Louis’ irritation was changing to relentlessly nagging curiosity. Where were his visitors from, exactly? In his youth, he’d read numerous UFO books and was aware of the various theories — from planets in other star systems, alternate dimensions on Earth, or underground denizens of our own world. What were their real reasons for being here? He doubted they were “just studying things.” What manner of travel had they used to get here? How long were they really staying? How was their physiology different from his own? They seemed somehow to thwart him from asking, as if some kind of psychological cloud emanated up the steps, an invisible barrier.
The day arrived when he worked up enough gumption to override any discouragement, however, and resolutely walked down the stairs. As soon as his foot hit the bottom step, a silence enveloped the basement. He had not realized how accustomed he’d become to the perpetual low hum.
As before, Nineed appeared out of the gloom from the other side of the furnace. “Yes, Louis? May I be of assistance?” Oddly, and Louis wasn’t sure how he could tell, the alien looked tired.
Louis pulled himself up to his full 5’9” and said, “I want some answers!”
A muffled boom emanated from behind the furnace. Nineed turned his potato head in its direction, then back to Louis. “Yes?” he said.
“Where are you two from?” asked Louise firmly.
“You have taken a very long time to proceed with this question,” said Nineed.
“Yeah, well,” said Louis. “I got the clear message that, even in my own house, I was not permitted to ask! It’s not like you’ve been forthcoming on your own, is it?”
“If I told you where our home is, it would mean nothing to you.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Nineed seemed to consider this, then made a sound somewhere between a loud bird chirp and the squeak of bad brakes. Louis flinched.
“That is it,” said Nineed. “The name of our home.”
“Well, what is it? A planet or what?”
“It is on a planet, yes,” said Nineed.
“Where is this planet?” asked Louis in the tone he used with an especially obtuse student. “How many light years from here?”
“It is in (more squeak and chirps, ending with a small scream). Three hundred forty-three of light-years.”
“I see,” said Louis. “How long does it take you to get here from there.”
“That depends on the set of the stream,” said Nineed.
“Stream?”
“You call them ‘worm holes.’ Folding of space.”
“So that works, then?” mused Louis rather happily. “Are you made of the same stuff as I am?”
“Are you referring to DNA?”
“Yes, that’ll do.”
“We are carbon based, however, though I said before that we are animals as you are, that was only partly true. We are, in Earth terms, twenty-one percent plant and nine percent (he made one of those chirps) — a form of life not present here, the rest animal.”
About Margaret Karmazin
